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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29478903">laissez faire</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/doingthewritethings/pseuds/doingthewritethings'>doingthewritethings</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>hehe sbi brain go brrrr [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A comedy of errors, Cooking, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Self Esteem Issues, Panic Attacks, Sibling Bonding, and shredded cheese. all you need in life, brief depictions of sensory overload, broccoli slander, extreme youngest sibling energy tommy, hashtag just incorporeal being problems, like borderline food network type beat, mentions of child abuse, slapped 25 headcanons together and called it a fic, tfw you're tryna help your brother cook but also you're a ghost, the issues themselves aren't mild but the fic isn't super intense, they make casserole. what did you expect, wilbur means well hes just a little oblivious</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:33:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,452</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29478903</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/doingthewritethings/pseuds/doingthewritethings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy also knows that if it wasn't for his residence in his brother’s house, absolutely no one would come to the cabin on a regular basis. Not that he regrets pushing the man out of his comfort zone— Techno absolutely cannot become a hermit before he even turns thirty— but still. </p><p>It feels like he's asking Techno to put up with a lot. So he's going to have an entire dinner made when everyone shows back up, and it’s going to taste fantastic, and they’re all going to fawn over Tommy and his heretofore undiscovered culinary skills. </p><p>It’s gonna be great.</p><p>or, the one where Tommy tries to cook, Wilbur tries to help, and things get a little complicated.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>hehe sbi brain go brrrr [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2091024</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>92</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>laissez faire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>me, looking at my four google docs filled with almost 20k words of plot heavy dsmp fic: It Is Time For Them To Cook Rice Together</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>laissez faire</b>
</p><p>
  <b>/ˌlesāˈfer/</b>
</p><p>
  <b> <em>noun</em> </b>
</p><p> </p>
<ul>
<li><b>a policy or attitude of letting things take their own course, without interfering; hands-off</b></li>
</ul><p> </p><p> </p><p>As soon as the door closes behind him, Tommy takes a moment to lean against it. He’s finally alone in the house; its cavernous interior is generally more cramped these days with two people living in it full time, not to mention plenty of friends coming and going.</p><p> </p><p>Techno has gone to fetch what he calls "the rest of the hooligans" from L’manberg; it’s nearly a two week journey through the forest, but he can condense it to four hours round trip through the Nether with a good compass. Around the third time Techno ended up having to rescue Tubbo and Phil from where they sat stranded in the middle of a pool of lava, he decided no one else was allowed to make the journey on their own. </p><p> </p><p>Tommy knows, despite Techno’s lack of complaint, that the whole ordeal is a bit more difficult than he lets on. It’s not that the journey is hard for him or the people are unqualified; it’s more how Phil nags him about failing to wear the proper armor, and Ranboo teleports to an unknown part of the path if he gets startled, and Tubbo is for some reason allergic to netherrack like everybody else is allergic to hay. So the whole process is tedious, and Techno loves nothing if not efficiency.</p><p> </p><p>Tommy also knows that if it wasn't for his residence in his brother’s house, absolutely no one would come to the cabin on a regular basis. Not that he regrets pushing the man out of his comfort zone— Techno absolutely cannot become a hermit before he even turns thirty— but still.</p><p> </p><p>It feels like he's asking Techno to put up with a lot. So he's going to have an entire dinner made when everyone shows back up, and it’s going to taste fantastic, and they’re all going to fawn over Tommy and his heretofore undiscovered culinary skills. It’s gonna be great.</p><p> </p><p>(Maybe, just a little, Tommy hears a nagging and familiar voice in the back of his mind. <em>You have to make them need you. You have to prove that you’re worth keeping around</em>. He ignores the voice, but he still pulls a dusty recipe book down from the cabinet and begins skimming through it.)</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>So, maybe Tommy’s culinary skills were undiscovered for a reason.</p><p> </p><p>He’s decided upon a casserole, both because it can easily feed lots of people and because it seems like the kind of dish where proportions and measuring aren’t too important. The cookbook says to prepare chicken breasts, so he takes two of them out of the icebox and fills Techno’s biggest pot with water. </p><p> </p><p>This is where things start to go downhill, and it’s only step two.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t account for stupid things like Archimedes' principle, so as soon as he places the chicken into the pot, water pours over the sides and onto the floor. He lets out a frustrated huff and reaches for a rag, pouring some of the excess water into the sink. Whatever. It’s fine.</p><p> </p><p>The book describes several different things happening at once,  a sort of culinary balancing act. Tommy digs a small package of broccoli out of the icebox, wrinkles his nose, and resolves to suck it up. He then pulls out some condensed broth, some sour cream, some butter. Privately he’s convinced the rest of his family is only pretending to like things in the same disgustingly green category as broccoli and brussel sprouts to seem grown up, but if they’re covered in enough cheese, he supposes it doesn’t matter either way.</p><p> </p><p>He unwraps the plastic of the container, tossing the frigid lump from one hand to the other. It doesn’t feel very soft, or at all like he thinks it should, really. Tommy hefts it above his head and slams it into the sturdy oak of the kitchen table; it hits the surface without budging, causing the room to echo with a solid thud. There’s no getting around it— the broccoli is frozen into one solid chunk.</p><p> </p><p>Tommy puts it in a small bowl, leaves that next to the fire to thaw, and sets about getting a bag of rice down from the top shelf of the pantry. It’s not that he’s short, thank you very much; it’s just that his company usually includes the massive pig man that owns this house (and thus controls the organization of the cupboards) and two people who can fly. It isn’t fair, truly it isn’t. </p><p> </p><p>He barely manages to snag the rice when he jumps; their step-stool is out in the woods somewhere from when he helped Phil hang bird feeders (teasing him about helping his distant relatives the whole time) and he isn’t about to hike through the woods after dark and freeze his ass off just to get it.</p><p> </p><p>He’s a capable person. It’s just a casserole. </p><p> </p><p>He overcorrects as he lands, grabbing whatever he can reach to keep from falling into the wall face first. The wooden shelf his hands find purchase on starts to creak ominously, so he lets it go as quickly as possible and falls to his knees in an undignified manner. The rice flies out of his grasp, the bag tearing open in midair; grains scatter across the hardwood floors and into the cracks between the boards. </p><p> </p><p>This is when Tommy starts to consider that he may be in over his head. </p><p> </p><p>It takes him a few minutes after this to realize that the chicken isn’t boiling, and a few minutes after <em> that </em> to realize the stove isn’t even on.</p><p> </p><p>As he attempts to remedy this— it’s absurd, really, how many buttons does a stove <em>need</em>— a clattering sound from the corner draws his attention. One of Techno’s many, <em> many </em>dogs is trying to lap up the broccoli still encased in ice. </p><p> </p><p>“Shoo!” Tommy says, waving his hands at the dog and trying to look intimidating.</p><p> </p><p>It does not move and instead keeps eye contact as it slowly sticks its tongue out to lick the bowl again. He runs over, shoving it out the door, and almost steps in the puddle which was once a stick of butter he absentmindedly sat down next to the fire. </p><p> </p><p>Desperate times call for desperate measures. Tommy plants his feet firmly on the ground and takes a deep breath. </p><p> </p><p>“<em>Wilbur!</em>”</p><p> </p><p>Tommy’s not entirely clear on where his brother spends his time, or a lot of the finer details of being a ghost, if he’s honest, but if he yells loud enough, Wilbur will come running every single time. Or… come floating. Whatever. It’s like having a little bell to ring and summon his own personal butler, except the butler is annoying and generally not paid to make his life easier.</p><p> </p><p>Sure enough, Wilbur appears in front of him, wearing a long coat and a cozy looking white turtleneck. His hair is tied into a bun at the nape of his neck; it looks slightly damp. “Yeah?” </p><p> </p><p>Tommy forgets what he needed and stares at him for a second. “Do ghosts take showers?”</p><p> </p><p>“I am a semi-corporeal being, and I have feelings, thank you very much.”</p><p> </p><p>Tommy stares at him blankly.</p><p> </p><p>Wilbur rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay. My hair still gets greasy, so sue me. It’s the worst part of being almost dead.”</p><p> </p><p>“Where does the grease even come from, the air?” Tommy muses out loud. His eyes widen. “Do you condensate?”</p><p> </p><p>He crosses his arms. “...What did you need help with?”</p><p> </p><p>“You totally <em>do</em>—“</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not part of the water cycle, jeez— <em> what </em> did you need help with?”</p><p> </p><p>Tommy snaps his fingers. “Right. Well, I—“</p><p> </p><p>Wilbur takes in the rice scattered across the floor, the butter puddle, the dog (back again to try and get the chicken, which still sits in cold water). “What did you <em> do</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Tommy throws his hands in the air. “See, I wanted to—“</p><p> </p><p>From somewhere deep in the pantry, the shelf he used to support his weight snaps. Wilbur closes his eyes. Everything which was once resting on it slowly slides down its length and crashes to the floor. With each new sound of shattering glass, Wilbur presses his eyes together a little tighter. </p><p> </p><p>“I am begging you to get Techno for this,” he says after the last crash in the pantry and a few seconds of dead silence. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s the whole point! Techno’s going to get Phil and the others, and they’re all coming back here to spend a few days, and I <em>know</em> he doesn’t like cooking, especially after going through the Nether. So, I’m going to make something. We have…” He glances at the clock. “About an hour and a half until they get back. Give or take. The recipe didn’t seem this hard on paper.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’d say it’s gone well so far,” Wilbur deadpans. </p><p> </p><p>“I am <em> trying</em>!”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, hand it here,” Wilbur says, snatching the recipe out of Tommy’s hands. He skims over the instructions and nods once, finding it satisfactory by some unknown standard. “The first step is to actually get the chicken going.” He glides over the spilled rice to the stove, turning a few knobs and setting the heat on high. “Once it cooks through, I should be able to chop it up and add it to the rest of this stuff. We probably need to clean the pantry next, though, or the mighty Technoblade is going to shoot us down where we stand.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fantastic,” Tommy says, grinning. “I knew I could count on you to save the day.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, yeah, I know, big brother Wilbur always—“ His sentence cuts off as he picks a bowl up off the counter. It goes well at first, but when he tries to hold it in one hand to spoon in the sour cream, it sinks slowly down through his hand, like an anvil in jello. After a few seconds, it falls out of his grasp completely and clatters onto the floor. </p><p> </p><p>Tommy looks at Wilbur. Wilbur looks at Tommy. </p><p> </p><p>“Uh oh,” says Wilbur. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Tommy says, running a nervous hand through his hair. “Alright, uh. You’re just going to have to give me instructions, I suppose?”</p><p> </p><p>Wilbur looks as if this is the last thing on earth he would like to do, but he picks up the recipe again and skims it with disdain. “Okay, well. Did you spill all of the rice we had?”</p><p> </p><p>“I think there’s more in the pantry if I spilled all the first bag.” Tommy briefly considers the state of the pantry. “Well, okay. Maybe we’re out of rice.”</p><p> </p><p>Wilbur glares scrutinizingly into the container, still lying sadly in the corner of the kitchen where Tommy dropped it. “I'd say there’s enough here. If you follow the directions on the back of the bag, it should go pretty simply. Fill this pot with water, put the rice in, and you can fix the chicken while it boils.” He looks over at the broccoli. “Just… throw that away and get some more.”</p><p> </p><p>Things progress nicely for all of two minutes. They fall into a steady rhythm as Tommy cooks under Wilbur’s careful guidance. The broccoli defrosts nicely, and he sets the cooked rice to one side until it finishes steaming. </p><p> </p><p>“Now you’re going to combine these,” says Wilbur, quickly carrying mayonnaise and some sort of broth to the countertop before they can fall through his arms.</p><p> </p><p>Tommy wrinkles his nose. “Are you sure about this?”</p><p> </p><p>“Positive,” says Wilbur. As soon as Tommy starts to scoop the sour cream, Wilbur reaches for his hand. “No, split everything into two bowls. I checked the ingredients in the broth, and you’ll have to make a separate casserole for Ranboo.”</p><p> </p><p>Tommy looks at him blankly.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s allergic to wheat?” Wilbur intones.</p><p> </p><p>“This is ringing no bells for me.”</p><p> </p><p>Wilbur sighs. “He only forgot it, what, twenty-odd times before Phil threatened to tattoo it on his forehead? What have you been feeding him when he comes over?”</p><p> </p><p>Tommy shrugs, splitting the ingredients as instructed. “Usually Techno deals with that. I wondered why Niki always makes his stuff separate at her bakery.” </p><p> </p><p>"I'm going to call Pops right now and tell him you two are never allowed to go anywhere alone again."</p><p> </p><p>The chicken has been boiling for a while, so Tommy follows his brother's prior instructions and starts chopping it into pieces. Wilbur takes a deep breath to steel himself before opening the pantry door and floating inside. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s not as bad as I thought it would be in here,” he yells from deep in the pantry. Tommy's pretty sure Techno intended it to be a bedroom at some point. “I should be able to deal with most of it while you cook.”</p><p> </p><p>A few minutes later, he emerges from the pantry (which admittedly looks much tidier) with a bag full of debris and shards of glass swept from the floor. “That should take care of—” He stops when he sees Tommy’s progress on the chicken, making a noise which can only be described as tutting. “Oh, not like <em> that</em>.” </p><p> </p><p>Tommy grits his teeth at Wilbur’s tone. The chicken doesn’t look terrible, but the knife isn’t sharp enough and the chunks are ending up more mangled than anything. “It’s not working.”</p><p> </p><p>“User error,” says Wilbur, trying to demonstrate what he should be doing and only succeeding in imitating a game of charades gone wrong.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s a knife. There are only so many ways to use it, and I feel like out of anyone, I should know them all.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a hint of malice in that last sentence, but Wilbur ignores it. “I suppose there isn’t time to make any more before the others get here.”</p><p> </p><p>The twinge of anger grows a little bit stronger. Tommy clenches his fists, ignoring the slight burning in his eyes. He isn’t going to cry, not over <em> cooking</em>. It’s just been a long day is all, but he isn’t a baby. “Does it really matter if the ingredients look bad? It’s all just going to get mixed together in the end anyway.”</p><p> </p><p>Wilbur rolls his eyes. “Of course it matters. It’ll cook all weird if the pieces are too big.”</p><p> </p><p>Tommy takes a deep breath in and out. “Then tell me how to fix it. I’m not a mind reader.”</p><p> </p><p>“Just, give it—” Wilbur reaches for the bowl.</p><p><br/>
Tommy clutches it to his chest, keeping it out of Wilbur's grasp. “You aren’t listening to me. You’re going to ruin—”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, <em> I’m </em>going to ruin it?” Wilbur says, making another grab at the bowl.</p><p> </p><p>Tommy reaches for his chest and shoves him away. “Wait, it’s not—”</p><p> </p><p>Wilbur groans. “Stop being such a child—”</p><p> </p><p>Their voices have gradually risen in volume until his last sentence is almost shouted. “Wilbur, <em> stop </em>—” Tommy yanks one last time on the bowl and it shoots out of his brother’s barely existent grasp, crashing to the floor. Some of its contents sloshes out onto the freshly de-riced hardwood. </p><p> </p><p>Tommy isn’t sure if the emotion he’s feeling is anger or sadness or whatever else; all he knows is that it’s so <em> much </em>at once. The tears in his eyes prick like needles and clog up his throat. This is supposed to be simple; he’s seen Techno make it dozens of times, and the man could probably scorch a pot of water. </p><p> </p><p>He’s overwhelmingly angry— he knows it’s irrational, he <em> knows </em> that Wilbur is just trying to help him and that freaking out will make everything worse, but having this knowledge doesn't help his eyes focus. Every movement is like running through rushing water, pressing down around him and making everything harder. Each new noise grates on his nerves, even the sounds of what he recognizes as concern. Wilbur stands there and watches him, worry in his eyes. Some deep part of him which he’ll regret later is thrilled that Wilbur feels even some little part of what he’s feeling, the burning behind his eyes and the choking sensation rising up from his chest. He opens his mouth, and even he's not sure what he's going to say: an apology or a retort or maybe a sob.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, his tone is low and furious. “<em>You’re</em> the one who can’t give me simple instructions, and Techno is going to be home soon and see that I’ve used his stuff and trashed his kitchen for nothing, and then Phil is going to have to cook even though he’s been away for days.” His breath is coming a little too fast now, hands shaking slightly. His legs hurt from how long he's been standing. He just wanted this to be <em> easy</em>. “And they’re going to see that all I do is take, that I can’t even cook my own food, that there’s no reason they need to keep me around—”</p><p> </p><p>Tommy isn’t quite sure when he backed into the kitchen counter, only that the marble is now a steady pressure digging into his spine as he tries to calm down. He squeezes his eyes shut as tightly as they’ll go, until there are stars dancing in the pitch black of his vision. “Whoa, whoa, hey, buddy,” Wilbur says, crouching down next to him. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t do that,” Tommy snaps.</p><p> </p><p>He hasn't opened his eyes, but he can tell Wilbur is staring at him. “Do what?”</p><p> </p><p>Tommy takes a deep and indulgent breath, in and out, before continuing. “Speaking to me like I’m a baby whenever I get… overwhelmed. This doesn’t make me weak or any shit like that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Damn right it doesn’t,” Wilbur says. “I’m sorry. What can I do?”</p><p> </p><p>He’s speaking at his normal volume, but it seems to ring through Tommy’s skull. “Shut <em> up</em>,” he says, much more biting than he means it to be.</p><p> </p><p>There are a few seconds in which his breath stutters in and out of his chest, slipping through his body without making any permanent impact. Even though Wilbur isn’t entirely there, he has enough of a form that Tommy can wrap his arms around him and press his head hard into his shoulder. He hates feeling weak (read: human) around his family, but he knows it’s only going to make things worse if he doesn’t figure out how to start breathing again. </p><p> </p><p>After a few minutes of heaving lungfuls of air, in and out and in again, things start to even out. His hands, which he doesn’t remember twisting around the soft fabric of Wilbur’s turtleneck, have stopped shaking and are now only partly numb. </p><p> </p><p>“Back with me?” Wilbur asks, voice almost a whisper. He squeezes his hands into fists instead of responding. "Is it okay if I talk?" Tommy jerks his head up and down.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry," Wilbur says, his voice blessedly staying at a whisper. "I know I can be a little… overbearing."</p><p> </p><p>Tommy snorts derisively; Wilbur smiles fondly at him. “Alright, yeah. Quite a bit of a control freak. Sorry for not realizing this had you so stressed out. And for making you think— like, for being condescending. I’m just worried, but I never want you to think I see you as anything less than what you are.” He pauses to choose his next words, teeth worrying at the inside of his cheek. “But you know you don’t have to <em> earn </em> the way we care about you, right?”</p><p> </p><p>Wilbur doesn't say the name, doesn't allude to Dream in any way, shape, or form. But Tommy knows. He knows they're both thinking about how he came back from exile and started to <strike>be a burden</strike> have trouble dealing with things that weren't an issue before. He doesn't want to talk about it; he just wants to move on with his life.</p><p> </p><p>Tommy stares stubbornly at the spot where the wall meets the floorboards. There’s an ant crawling across it. He does not make eye contact with Wilbur.</p><p> </p><p>“Phil doesn’t mind taking care of us. And I get it, you want to make things easier for him. I do too. But you’re—” Wilbur waves his hands helplessly through the air. “There’s no <em> reason </em>we keep you around<em>. </em>You deserve to feel safe and loved, no matter what. You and Tubbo and Ranboo— all of you need time to relax and just... be kids. You’ve been through enough already. And you’ve come through the other side of it all. You’re brave and smart and hilarious and—and, I’m proud to call you my brother.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a long moment of silence in which Tommy steadfastly keeps his arms around himself and his gaze glued to the floor. Wilbur shuffles around awkwardly. They both pretend their eyes aren’t a little wet.</p><p> </p><p>“...Technically everything’s together, if you want to sprinkle the cheese in the pans?” Wilbur tries, standing up slowly. “You don’t have to, if it’s too much. I swear everyone would understand. But in my personal experience, nothing makes me feel better quite like taking some cheese and just spreading the absolute shit out of—”</p><p> </p><p>Tommy laughs wetly and scrubs his face with the sleeve of his shirt, holding onto the counter and pulling himself into a standing position. His feet are more stable than he anticipates them to be, so he reaches over and takes the cheese from Wilbur. “I would love to.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He can hear Phil, Ranboo, Technoblade, and Tubbo from a mile away. Well, mostly Tubbo— there’s not a lot of sound in the tundra to begin with, and he’s chattering excitedly to Ranboo about some project he’s started, now that he's stepped down from his duties as president.</p><p> </p><p>Wilbur is floating idly near the living room ceiling; Tommy sits on the couch listening to music, the soft strains of a disc drifting through the house. He’s under at least five blankets, which Wilbur insisted on. He doesn’t really need them, especially not now, but he knows Wilbur hates nothing more than feeling useless, so he took each new blanket he was handed without protest.</p><p> </p><p>“Wilbur?” he says as he hears their family nearing the front porch.</p><p> </p><p>“Hm?”</p><p> </p><p>Tommy runs a hand through his hair, smoothing through a few of the knots and a substance he’s pretty sure is chicken broth. “Thanks. Love you.”</p><p> </p><p>Wilbur opens his mouth to say something, but Tommy will never know what, because at that moment the door flies open and half the snow in the tundra comes in with it. Ranboo shakes his head like a dog; flakes of snow fall to the floor and begin to melt.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, <em> something </em> smells good in here,” says Phil, walking inside and beginning to untangle himself from his coat. His eyes light up when he spots Wilbur. “Oh, hey, Will! I didn’t expect to see you here.”</p><p> </p><p>"Just felt like dropping by, I suppose," he says, coming down to give Phil a hug.</p><p> </p><p>“I made it all by myself,” Tommy is saying. “I’m going to become the best chef in the entire SMP—not like it’s hard, but I think I’m right on course,” he crows, dragging Tubbo by one arm and gesturing grandly to his nicely browned casserole with the other.</p><p> </p><p>“Wow, made it all by your lonesome, huh?” Phil says, giving him an indulgent smile. From across the room, Wilbur leans on the doorframe, puts a finger to his lips, and winks at Tommy. </p><p> </p><p>Tommy doesn’t— he’s a big man, he doesn’t <em> giggle</em>, he just laughs a little when he thinks about the casserole fiasco. A dog licked the broccoli. These things could only happen to a person like him.</p><p> </p><p>“I made cake for dessert,” Ranboo says, gently setting a round tray on the table. “It’s probably not as good as whatever you made, but I didn’t want to show up empty handed.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ranboo,” Techno says with the air of a man who is on the verge of death, “please tell me there isn’t wheat in that.”</p><p> </p><p>Ranboo laughs and shoves him, even though Techno is made entirely of muscle and therefore doesn't move at all. “There isn’t! I wrote that down, you made me write that down in like— five different places. At <em> least</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Tommy ignores Phil’s preemptive scolding and picks a corner off the cake with his bare hands. “Like an animal,” Techno says from behind him.</p><p> </p><p>The cake is fantastic. It’s beyond fantastic. Tommy would sell his firstborn child for this cake. He would commit terrible, horrible crimes just to be able to eat this exact chocolate cake, slightly warm and frosted with vanilla, every single day of his life, and die with no regrets. </p><p> </p><p>He picks up another small piece, putting it straight into Tubbo’s mouth (“Savages, I have let savages into my home,” Techno continues) and watches as his eyes light up. It’s time to delete the entirety of his bestselling book How to Sex, because whatever the hell Ranboo put in this cake blows any future encounters out of the water. It’s just him and this cake and his taste buds making sweet, sweet love from here on out. Tommy vaguely wonders if Ranboo's silk touch applies to flour.</p><p> </p><p>“How is it?” Ranboo says, watching them nervously.</p><p> </p><p>Tubbo opens his mouth, presumably to sing the praises of this nectar of the gods. Tommy shoves an elbow into his side.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay,” Tommy says. “Maybe someday you can be as good of a cook as me! If you, uh, keep trying. And give this recipe another shot. Several more times.”</p><p> </p><p>“And bring it here for us to sample!” Tubbo adds. “As experts in the field, of course.”</p><p> </p><p>“It is literally the best thing he’s ever eaten,” Techno translates, “and I’m pretty sure they’ve resorted to begging and lies so that you'll bring more.”</p><p> </p><p>Ranboo smiles, looking pleased with himself. His jaw unhinges a little whenever he grins; it never really gets less unnerving, but now there’s a happy buzz in Tommy's chest from making his friend happy mixed in with the usual mortal horror. He helps Phil set the table, listening to Wilbur gently strum his guitar and teach Tubbo where to set his fingers to form a chord. </p><p> </p><p>Upon second thought, Tommy kind of thinks it would be neat to have his jaw unhinge. A physical manifestation of this feeling, this overwhelming warmth, this sensation he still hasn’t grown used to— of being protected and thoroughly loved. </p><p> </p><p>“Tommy,” Techno whispers to him.</p><p> </p><p>“Hm?” He’s curled up in Phil’s coziest and most overstuffed armchair, halfway asleep despite the fact that they haven’t even eaten.</p><p> </p><p>Techno’s voice is filled with the utmost despair. “<em>What </em> did you do to my <em> pantry</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>Tommy grins, wide and chaotic, as he hears Wilbur try and fail to muffle his laughter from across the room. “Nothing you can prove.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>my dad was in quarantine so he had to tell me how to cook his recipe from across the kitchen and it went about as well as you think. but in the end the casseroles were pretty darn good, if i do say so myself.</p><p>i'm actually eating broccoli casserole again while proofing this. good work team</p></blockquote></div></div>
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